Happy Friday, and welcome to the next batch of entries in The Jacket: A Writing Competition.  If you’re breaking into a rousing chorus of “What’s It All About, Alfie?”  right about now, then

1)      You have good taste in music
2)      You have good taste in films
3)      You’re old
4)      You’re clueless about this competition.

If you fit into category #4 please check out the right hand column for rules and an entry form.

I continue to be both delighted by the caliber of entries I’ve received, and smugly superior because my readers are so very clever.  Y’all give yourselves a pat on the back.  I think this contest has been a dream-come-true for most, as so eloquently illustrated by the picture above of the typical writer’s experience.

Click on the page at the top of this page, under the header picture, to check out the previous entrants.

If the writer is also a blogger, I’ve posted a link to their blog.  Stop by and share some love after you get done here.  All entries will be printed here, and I will finish up with the rest next week.  Then I will announce the finalists for your vote.

Remember that TODAY IS THE LAST DAY TO SUBMIT YOUR ENTRY.  Don’t make me come after you to get it.

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Name: Terry

Someone opened the closet and started looking at the garments.  Pretty soon all the nieces were eyeballing the vintage dresses and shirts.  Liz noticed a green jacket at the back of the closet, draped in old laundry plastic.  She pulled it out and uncovered a brilliant, colorful, green jacket.  “This is mine!” she declared to the group.

She tried it on.  It fit.  As she admired herself in the full length mirrors on the closet door, her fingers found some piece of paper in the pocket and a neatly folded tissue.  As she read the name on the slip of paper, she wondered, who was Tom Wocekowski?

As the nieces and nephews combed through Aunt Guitar’s things, they recalled fond family events and stories about the Aunts – a tight knit group of six sisters.  They found lots of photo albums and old diaries, in her old, paper Day Timers planners.  As they skimmed the  monthly calendars, Aunt Guitar’s life unfolded before their eyes.

Liz asked her Mom about the name in the pocket, hoping she could solve the intriguing mystery.  But, by this time, Peg was in assisted living with her sister, MK.  They had a grand time and loved to dress up and wear costume jewelry, just as their Grandma Corrigan had done.  However, some days, they were back in time in their memories and couldn’t place the name that day.

In a lucid moment, Peg and MK remembered the man from MTU who had almost married Tar.  And the jacket was from the 70’s or 80’s.  Could it be that he had tried to contact her after she called off the engagement and moved to Chicago?

No writings that Liz could find answered the question.  Was it the one Auntie loved or another beau never spoken of?

Liz was happy to get a few of Aunt Guitar’s lovely items.  Here was the family history, through the cool jewelry she inherited, the writings, and the photo albums.

She had lived the road less traveled early in her life.  And, now, a little piece of her was with all her beloved nieces and nephews – the next generation. She thought of her Aunt and smiled.

The family finally closed up the house, locked the door, and got ready to leave.  They were the stewards of the family antiques, with many family stories to connect the past with the future.

Reluctantly, they loaded up and bid farewell to their cousins and remaining aunts and uncles, and hit the road with memories swirling in their heads of the eccentric and storied lives of the aunts.

As they headed out of Shepherd, it started to snow…

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Name: Vina Kent
Website: http://vinakent.com

“Helen, its me, I need you to meet me at the place we meet at when there are emergencies.” the line went dead.

Catching my breathe, I thought for a minute, then quickly set about to getting dressed. I’d never heard my mother in such hysterics.

As I arrived at our secret meeting place, which had been the same since I was a kid. Noticing something I’d never seen before, a white stone bench. My Mother was standing in front of it, so I quickly started my walk up the long path. About halfway up, a small strange light began to grow just behind the bench.

“Hurry Helen!” My Mother screamed, so I began to run as fast as my feet could take me up the hill. As I reached him, he said, “Take this piece of paper, find him for me.” Then she pushed me through the light.

Screaming and kicking, I felt like I was being pulled in all directions, until I found myself in a corner of what seemed like a stone house.

“Lass what are ye doing there on the floor?” a voice to the right of me spoke, but the sun through what looked like a window kept me from seeing his voice.

“I… I don’t know what I’m doing here. I was with my Mother, who handed me this piece of paper, and now I’m here.” I held my hand out which still possessed the tiny slip of paper.

The woman, from the sounds of it, took the paper, read it and laughed. “Aye, Tom Wojciechowski, he just came back from Iverness.” She extended a hand to me and I accepted as she helped me onto my feet.

As I stood, I took the woman before me in. She had the strong jaw and flaming red hair… she looked like my great gran Mary Ellen. Then I saw it, over behind her on a hook by the door. The green jacket… I knew it from my child hood.

“Tom, come and get supper!” Mary Ellen yelled and turned towards the table, “Come eat with us lass.”

I was about to meet my great-grandfather. I was most surprised to learn that I’d finally be meeting my great-grandfather, the man who’d died before I was born, the man I’d heard so much about, the man who was a hero. Id been sent back to meet him.

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Name: Elyse
Website: http://fiftyfourandahalf.wordpress.com
Comment: The Reunion

“The worst part of being single has to be meeting a new guy’s family,” said Maura to her sister Peggy.  “I can’t believe I agreed to go to this party.”

“You’ll be fine.  You’ll have fun.  Stop being a nudge,” said Peg, obviously checking her blog stats on her laptop.

“You can say that.  You don’t have to go.”

“I think a big Polish family reunion is just the place for an Irish-American widow,” Peg responded.  “You’ll be intriguing.  Everyone will wonder who you are.”

“Oh, Peg,” chuckled Maura, “I’ll have to figure out who they are.  I hardly even know Tom, he’s never mentioned any of his zillion relatives.  I don’t know who he likes, who he hated, who used to torture him as a kid.  I don’t know anything — including why I’m going.”  Maura wandered over to the dressing table, and started putting on her make up.  “I don’t even know what to wear.”

Peg put down her laptop, and walked over to Maura’s closet.

“You just slather that crap on your face.  I’ll find your outfit.”  Peg looked through her little sister’s closet.  “Got it!” Peg said as she triumphantly pulled out Maura’s green, yellow and orange checked jacket, and a pair of matching yellow slacks.

“Why do you think I should wear that?  I mean it’s comfortable, but I will kind of stand out, don’t you think?”

“You’re going to stand out a bit, anyway.  You are a walking Irish Flag – red curly hair, pale skin, and an infectious sense of humor.  By wearin’ the green, you’ll break the ice on the whole issue.  Then you can casually mention that you are a Polka champ, and you will have them eating out of your delicate Irish hands.”

“That was in junior high, and I came in second.”

“They don’t need to know that.”

“OK, I’ll wear this.  You’re right, I’ll embrace my heritage, my greenness.  But you know, I don’t know how I’m going to remember all their names.  I can’t even pronounce Tom’s last name.”

“Relax,” said Peg smiling as she wrote something on a scrap of paper, and put it into her sister’s pocket.  “There’s only one name you need to remember.”

Maura looked at the paper and smiled at her date’s name on it in Peg’s parochial school script:  Tom Wojciechowski.

“I wish you’d included the phonetic version.”

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Name: Separated Dad
Website: http://fourisafamily.wordpress.com
Comment: It had all gone wrong.

Why didn’t he say no? His innate desire to help led him into this. Now he might die. Would it hurt or be be quick? Was he over-reacting?

He fingered the long thin sheet of paper in his pocket.  There were two words that he needed: Tom Wojciechowski.

The long grass tilted in the blustering wind and he felt the oncoming sneeze. Goddam allergies! Grabbing another Kleenex from his pocket, he stifled the sneeze. But the wind had dropped and the noise carried in the now-still night.

He heard a sound. Trying to lose himself in the lower branches of the tree, he peered through the gloom and made out two people creeping towards him. Did they bring it?

I’m not a spy, he thought. I’m just a magician.

His show had been a good one. As always, people were impressed with the Invisible Desk. The men who came to see him after the performance were particularly impressed with his box and disappearing objects.

They wanted to know how the box worked. He wouldn’t tell them. Not even when they laid down a tempting pile of bills. They suggested that instead of giving to them, perhaps he could simply use the box for them. And keep all the money, and more piles just like it.

Reluctantly, he agreed.

The flight to China took days. Or felt like it. The chauffeur at the airport spoke no English, but just drove him to the field. With a wave like that for a dog, he was told to stay.

The two figures were close now. They spoke English, “Who are you, stranger?”

“Tom Wojciechowski,” he replied.

“Who?” they said. Their eyes darted around. Had they been trapped? Caught?

“Tom Wojciechowski? That’s what they said!”

The men paused and laughed. Even their laughter carried a Chinese accent to it. “You mean Wozniak, right? And Steve, not Tom?”

“Umm, I guess so. Sorry. I was nervous.” He picked up his jacket reached into his pocket for another Kleenex and echoing sneeze. Allergies again, and to Chinese grass, darn it.

“OK. Take this and hide it in your box. Bill is waiting for it.”

“Whatever.” He sounded like his teenage boys.

The flight back took even longer. But the driver spoke English. “Bill Gates is looking forward to meeting you. He has to have the first iPad whenever a new one comes out.”

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Name: Pen Name: L. H. Sorenson
Website: http://None–Tawnmademeenter(shescaresme.)
Comment: EVENTUALLY

Olivia leaned on the counter and spooned dark roast into the Mr. Coffee “It’s not fair” she called over her shoulder to her granddaughter.  “At twenty-one if you wake up all achy you know you had a damn good night.  At sixty-three you wake up with your bones steeped in ache—and it’s just Tuesday.”  Olivia moved to the table and watched the pot for the first drops of life to appear in all their earthy goodness.

“Poor, Grandma . . .wait a second . . .  I know there’s a story here.”  Chloe emerged from the closet wearing a green jacket and clutching a scrap of paper.  “I found a note with Grandpa’s name in the pocket.  What’s the story? ”

Olivia eased back and let her mind wander back:

I was sitting at the bar, writing a letter while I waited for friends, when your Grandfather’s baritone boomed out.

“Write this down—Tom Wojciechowski.”

“Do you spell that with one house or two,” I countered.  Tom just stood there in his sailor uniform, smiling like a good-natured puppy dog. Another day, maybe.  “Sorry, Mr. Wit-ja-house-key, but I only date Jewish Cowboys.”

His jaw fell, and Tom made a tactical retreat as the bartender spoke up.  “You might actually want to write that name down.  Tom isn’t a bad guy, he just lacks experience.”

Experience?  “And your name is?”  I queried.

“Hopalong Goldstein!”  He flourished his hands and the reddest strawberry daiquiri I’ve ever seen appeared on the bar.

“And what would say, Mr. Goldstein?”  I asked.

“I would say that some of us are riding out to the Willowbrook Ballroom and you would definitely raise the aesthetic.  We might get back a bit late, but it should be a party you can tell your grandkids about.”

And now, I guess I am telling the grandkids.

“But, Grandma!”  Chloe stumbled as she handed over a cup.  “You married Tom Wojciechowski.”

“Eventually.”  Olivia took a sip and considered her granddaughter.  “Eventually, you get to the point where you don’t mind setting up for a long voyage with a young sailor who is still learning the ropes and fumbling with his block-and-tackle.  But, sometimes, my Dear, what you really need is an old hand who knows how to box the compass.”

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